


river water

by vasnormandy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "this is a solavellan fic" she said to herself, F/M, One Shot, Prompt Fic, as she wrote pages of bickering advisors, eh. i think i did ok.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vasnormandy/pseuds/vasnormandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the state he is in, were he to stop to consider it for a moment, would not be one he would wish her to see him in, but his wishes hold little consequence so long as she remains in danger. he will find it in himself to care about such trivial matters later, he is sure – but for the moment, all that concerns him is lavellan, lavellan in harm’s way, lavellan in pain, lavellan in any place and any state but safe and strong and smiling. || a solavellan one-shot based on an otp prompt from tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	river water

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the prompt from tumblr: "person a being held hostage in a fortress and person b violently leaving a mess of carnage in their wake in order to get to them. covered in blood and questionable pieces of enemy remains, person b finally makes it to person a in the center of the wreckage and gives them a gentle peck on the forehead before apologizing for the wait."

**SUPPOSE FOR A MOMENT** that the heart has two heads, that the heart has  
been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The  
heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the  
red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love  
even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay.  
  
Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something  
to ripple the water.  _We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not_ _  
_getting dark__ , we want to say.

-Richard Siken, _You Are Jeff._

 ---

 

Soft afternoon light filters through the ornate glass windows of the war room, casting itself across the floor, the war table, the tense figures of the Inquisition’s advisors. Cullen stands with his shoulders raised, his hands braced on the edge of the table, his hands bowed; he exudes a clear aura of stress and concern. Leliana is opposite him, her side against the table, arms crossed; her calm exterior is, for the most part, intact, but anyone present could see the fear beneath. Josephine paces the length of the end of the table, her lower lip held nervously between her teeth, eyes flitting across the surface of the table as though it holds some answers. All three cast long shadows across the floor, the war table, their own hearts.

Without her guidance, her steadying hand, progress has been… slow.

“As I have been saying, our best chances lie with a full frontal assault. Our army could –”

“And as I have been saying, Commander, a matter of this importance calls for some semblance of delicacy. I could send a number of agents to –”

“A few spies against a well-fortified stronghold and Maker knows what kind of numbers? They wouldn’t stand a chance. And should they be caught, the Inquisitor’s life could be forfeit.”

“They’re my people. They wouldn’t be caught.”

“But say that they are –”

“Say that they are not. And regardless, your suggestion is no safer. Our enemy has every advantage. We simply cannot charge in and hope for the best with the Inquisitor’s life at stake.”

Most of her inner circle, he knows, fill the hallway just outside of the war room, too concerned to stay away but barred from the strategic sanctum by the knowledge that adding their voices to the disagreements within will only serve to complicate matters further. Only a select few who categorically refused to resign themselves to the outer hall have been allowed inside. Cassandra, of course, sits against a wall, sharpening her sword and glowering at everything and everyone within ten feet of her; the terror that has settled within her is palpable, as is the anger accompanying it. Dorian stalks back and forth across the room, arms wrapped around his midriff; his emotions, like Cassandra’s, all linger on the surface, and by the way his muscles tense and relax again and again, he seems to sway between bouts of unspeakable rage and devastating fear. Morrigan perches silently on a windowsill, one leg tucked up close to her chest. Her cryptic mask has not once wavered; she is as unreadable as ever.

And him, of course. There’s him.

He’s afraid as well, for what it’s worth.

“Both of you are acting as though force is the only means open to us. We are not dealing with common bandits; the people responsible for this are clearly well-organized. It’s very unlikely that they are operating alone. They’re most likely mercenaries hired by an enemy of the Inquisition.”

Ah, Josephine. The lone voice of reason.

“Or by Corypheus himself.”

“That is the less probable conclusion. Corypheus would see the Herald dead, not held captive. More likely we are dealing with a political rival – I would hazard a guess at ties to Orlais, or the Chantry.”

“Fair enough.”

“What are you suggesting, Josie?”

“We have a number of highly respected negotiators on our payroll. I can dispatch them to speak with our kidnappers, to ascertain their identities and their goals, hear any demands they may have, and determine if a trade of sorts may be arranged.”

“You don’t think they’re just going to – hand her over, do you?”

“I do not believe so, no. But a well-trained negotiator with access to the right bargaining chips can be surprisingly persuasive. At the very least, we will know more about them, and will be able to determine if there are any… buttons we can press. Does the ringleader have a family history which we can use as blackmail, for instance? Does the man holding the keys have a beloved daughter we could have as a guest at Skyhold?”

“Josie’s right, Commander. We are only powerless so long as we lack information. However, I would prefer to send in my agents to gather any –”

“Again, Leliana? Your people could easily be caught and killed, and our intentions discovered. Who knows what the Inquisitor may suffer as a result?”

“She could be suffering now, Cullen, and we would not know!”

“Which is exactly why we must take the fortress and rescue her as quickly as possible. We know where she is. A full frontal assault –”

“The void take your full frontal assault. You only know where she is because my agents tracked her disappearance! They are waiting for my word – we could have enough information to formulate a plan of attack within the week!”

“So you agree that we must attack?”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Leliana, please. See reason. We can only respond to this with force.”

“Please, both of you – there is a way we can resolve this without bloodshed!”

“Me see reason? Me? How will you feel when we go blundering in with no information, and these unknown kidnappers slit the Inquisitor’s throat the moment our troops knock on the door? Her blood would be on your hands!”

“Leliana, please, calm down, we help no one by –”

“We endanger the Inquisitor no less by sending an army than we do by sending spies. One of the two may actually stand a chance of succeeding in rescuing her.”

“Leliana – _Cullen_ –”

“I disagree.”

“I’m well aware that you disagree, but the fact of the matter is –”

“The fact of the matter,” he says quietly, “is that you endanger her most by doing nothing.”

Astonishingly, all three raised voices give way to a still, perfect silence the moment he lends his to the mix. It is static, tense, hanging, and the air feels dense with it. He looks up – it is clear from each of their faces that they had not expected him to speak. Cullen watches him with surprise; Leliana with expectancy. Josephine, he thinks, looks somewhat grateful to him for succeeding in stopping an argument that would no doubt have only escalated further if left unchecked. Cassandra has paused in her work, her hand stilled halfway down the blade, her body frozen in place. Dorian’s pacing has come to a halt; his gaze, wide-eyed and vulnerable, lifts from his feet. Even Morrigan glances in his direction, a look of what could best be described as vague interest coming over her face.

He has the floor.

He has, up until this point, been sitting – like Cassandra – against the wall, having selected a darker corner of the room in which to lurk. He rises now to his feet, an ethereal sort of energy about him, as though his very blood was quaking; when he speaks again, there is a tone of unmitigated accusation in his voice.

“You are doing _nothing_.”

“Solas,” Josephine begins, but Leliana cuts her off.

“No course of action can be taken,” the spymaster refutes sharply, “until the best course of action has been decided upon.”

“A decision you are no closer to reaching than you were an hour ago,” he points out. “For all we know, they could be killing her as we speak.”

“For all we know,” Morrigan echoes from the windowsill, her eyes again fixed on her knee, “she could be dead as we speak.”

“A lovely thought, Morrigan,” comes Dorian’s reply, a hollow ghost of his usual verve and charm inflicted on his tone, “and precisely what we all needed to hear, I’m sure.”

“We must face facts.”

“But we mustn’t lose hope,” Cassandra mutters, her form still frozen stiff.

Josephine draws a long breath. “No one is suggesting that we –”

“Morrigan is,” Dorian chimes.

“Twas not what I said.”

“It was heavily implied.”

“Why is he here?” Morrigan asks, a question seemingly posed to no one in particular, and Dorian bristles.

“He’s her best friend,” Josephine supplies. “He worries for her. We don’t have the heart to ask him to leave.”

The witch quirks an eyebrow – in amusement or skepticism, Solas cannot tell. “None of you?” she inquires, and then turns again to Dorian, her gaze hardened to steel. “Leave.”

“No,” Dorian quips in reply, and in his anger he sounds somewhat more like himself.

“You are doing _nothing_ ,” Solas spits again; again the room falls silent as eyes return to him. Most look as though they expect him to continue, to say more, and oh, he could – but he does not.

There’s a soft clatter as Cassandra sets her sword down on the floor beside her, bracing the heel of her hand against the wall as she climbs to her feet. “Solas is right,” she declares, and in spite of himself he is almost genuinely touched by her support. They have not truly been at odds for some time, the two of them, he supposes, but nor have they been friends; for love of Lavellan, it seems, they can put aside their differences. “Look at us,” she continues, her voice familiarly commanding and authoritative. She demands to be heard in a way none of the rest of them can achieve. “Squabbling like petulant children. Is the Inquisition so fragile that we let ourselves fall to this without her at our head?”

Dorian breathes a sigh. “Evidence thus far would suggest that the answer to that question is _yes_ , Cassandra.”

“I do not accept that,” she replies immediately. “I cannot accept that.”

The silence that follows is broken by a soft, resigned sigh, and it takes him a moment to identify Morrigan as the source.

“They don’t know that we know they have her,” she says from the windowsill. “Either an approaching army flying Inquisition banners or a diplomatic attaché requesting to speak on our behalf would serve to tip them off quite nicely, I believe. Besides that, no demands have yet been made. Given her importance, tis unlikely that she is being held as a bargaining chip, and negotiations are therefore not like to succeed. The element of surprise is the only thing we have working on our side. Leliana’s agents could operate without sacrificing us that.”

“So you’re taking her side,” Cullen concludes.

“I am taking the side of reason, Commander, as I’m sure you could clearly see should you take the time to remove your head from –”

“Please,” Josephine interjects, a tinge of the desperation her voice had held earlier creeping back in, “no one is taking anyone’s side – fighting amongst ourselves will do nothing to aid –”

“Leliana’s agents are good,” Cullen continues, Josephine’s pleas either unheard or disregarded, “but –”

Across the table from him, Leliana scoffs and comments, “They’re more than good,” prompting a short glare from Cullen.

“But they still are only human,” he finishes, staring down Leliana as he speaks to Morrigan.

“If it’s their humanity you take issue with,” Morrigan retorts smoothly, “by all means, send an elf.”

As quickly as it had been silenced, the cacophony of disagreement reemerges, this time with four voices rather than three; a heat is rising in Solas’s chest, a ferality, up through his neck and into his head and he locks his jaw shut before the growing anger can spill out through his mouth. His every muscle is tensed, like an animal ready to pounce, as he turns and storms from the room. His hand is flung outward to push through the large doors, and as it swings closed behind him he hears the escalating argument cut short by a sharp thus – likely as Cassandra impales the war table on the point of a knife, as she has been known to do in lieu of vocally demanding the floor.

He storms through the outer hall - past Varric leaning against the wall just beside the door, Cole on the floor nearly hidden beneath the brim of his hat; Sera perched atop a section of the half-ruined exterior wall, Iron Bull close enough to catch her before she topples down the mountainside should she lose her balance; Vivienne with her cool demeanor, Scout Harding with her lower lip clamped between her teeth. He storms through Josephine’s deserted office, through the quiet main hall and out of the building.

He is not sure where he is going, or with what intention, until he is at the stables, throwing a saddle over the back of the horse he is most used to riding. Dennet is gone; one of the last things the Inquisitor did before her abduction was to grant him some weeks’ leave to visit his wife and daughter. She is considerate that way. A kind soul, and much too good for the likes of him. He knows that. He has known that for some time now.

Such knowledge will do nothing to soften the loss of her, so with hardened resolve he determines on the spot that she will not be lost.

“Solas?”

He is wound up tightly enough that he nearly attacks at the sound of his name – but he stops himself, and good thing, because it’s only Blackwall, looking curiously at him from the other end of the stables.

Solas draws a long breath, composes himself, and inquires, with all the calm he can muster, “Why are you not with the others?”

The Warden gives a noncommittal shrug. “Could ask the same of you.”

“I was. The… arguing became intolerable.”

“Ah.” He nods, sucks in a breath, and adds, “Figured I wouldn’t be much good in there. Don’t get me wrong. The minute we move to rescue the Inquisitor, I’ll be at the head of the charge. But until then… might as well stay where I’m useful.”

Solas offers a small nod. “An admirable sentiment.”

“Is it?” Blackwall gestures with his head to the horse Solas holds by the reigns. “You going somewhere?”

Solas looks up at the horse, and leads it out of the stable – the Warden’s small interrogation will not sway him from this. “It is of little consequence,” he says, tone still and smooth. An absolute lie, but what have you.

“Solas. Now of all times –”

“Yes, Warden Blackwall,” he confirms, lifting his foot into the stirrup and swinging himself up onto the saddle. “Now of all times.”

Understanding dawns on Blackwall’s face, a moment too late. “You’re charging off on some half-cocked rescue mission.”

“I grow tired of waiting for politics to run their course while the Inquisitor’s life hangs in the balance,” is his stiff reply.

“You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I will return with her.”

“Or you’ll get yourself killed.”

“I will return with her,” he says again, and the follow-up statement – _or I will not return_ – remains unsaid.

He isn’t sure how, against all his better judgment, he has allowed himself to fall so completely into her, or when, or what there is to be done about it now. A question for another time, he thinks, when she is safe.

“Solas –”

“Your concern is appreciated, Warden,” he interrupts, looking down from horseback to meet his eyes. “Tell no one where I’ve gone until I’ve a decent head start. Grant me that, at least.”

The man does not reply, and Solas spurs the horse forward.

He loses track of time as he rides; once Skyhold is well and truly behind him, the landscapes seem to blur together, mountains to plains to forests to plains again. He is more than aware of every second that passes – every second in which she is still a captive, in which she is likely alone, and likely scared, and very possibly in pain – but he does not keep count of them, and day and night fuse into one as completely as forests and plains. He rides through the nights, for the most part; an undue strain on the poor animal, he knows, but he cannot bring himself to care.

The fortress’s location, as it was marked on the war table, is burned into his mind. He knows it to be in a region which Leliana calculates to be approximately eight to nine days away – more for an army marching slowly, less for lone agents who travel under cover of darkness. He reaches the gates in what cannot have been more than four days.

From there, it is a simple matter of killing everything in his sight.

The kidnappers are human, and wear some manner of uniform. He does not stop to ask their identities, or their intentions, or their goals; from the moment the first guard approaches to investigate the odd elven apostate at the gate, his every spell is aimed to kill.

He has always held back in combat as he lived under the name of Solas, has always kept his power in check for fear of showing his hand – no easy task when emotional entanglements become involved, he has learned, especially when well-placed enemy blows send her crumpling to the ground. Most of the time, Cassandra is at her side in seconds, ensuring her well-being and slipping a potion into her hands if need be, and so he continues to check himself. He repeats in his head that his deceit has not yet truly endangered her, and he takes solace in that.

But she is not here, there is no fear of revealing himself to her; and his enemy is legion where he is only one; and most importantly, they stand between him and Lavellan.

It has indeed been a while since he called upon the extent of the strength at his disposal. The feeling – the sense of it filling him up, the release of magic in finely-aimed bursts of power, the knowledge that these men fall by his hand, watching them topple, crushed and bloody, to the floor – is more welcome than he would care to admit. In no time he is well and truly cloaked in blood.

He fights his way through each room, through each man or woman who stands in his path, through every corner and corridor of the keep in search of her. He could, he supposes, ask for her location, with rage in his eyes and an ethereal fist closing around the windpipe of some unlucky man, but he does not pause in his destruction long enough for any sort of interrogation. There is no plan, no strategy – there is only the kidnappers, and his power, and red splattered across the walls and floors (and, in a few odd cases, the ceilings), and the thought of Lavellan, alone.

The fortress is silent before he has begun to tire himself.

Only the lowest level remains unsearched, and he weaves his way through every room, uncaring of the red trail he leaves or of the way the blood squelches in his shoes with every step as though he were treading through the mud of a riverbank. There is purpose in his gait, despite the sound. The state he is in, were he to stop to consider it for a moment, would not be one he would wish her to see him in, but his wishes hold little consequence so long as she remains in danger. He will find it in himself to care about such trivial matters later, he is sure – but for the moment, all that concerns him is Lavellan, Lavellan in harm’s way, Lavellan in pain, Lavellan in any place and any state but safe and strong and smiling.

He finds her, at last, behind a door with a small barred window. If her cell had been guarded, those stationed there must have run to aid their comrades in their fruitless attempts to fend off his attacks. A small spark of magic takes care of the lock, and he pushes the door open with a delicacy that is foreign, alien, when juxtaposed with his actions in the fortress thus far.

There are two figures in the cell. The first – seated on the floor in the center of the room with her legs folded beneath her, her hands bound in thick irons and fastened to the wall by a long chain, her head ducked – he would know to be her despite the dim lighting even without the telltale dull, green glow from within her fist. The second is a woman, tall and strong, evidently left as her sole guard and likely the last of her company left alive within the fortress; her eyes glint, catlike, as the torchlight catches them through the slit in her helm.

Lavellan’s head snaps up as the door swings open – her copper-blonde hair is disheveled, copper-brown skin marked with bruises and blood, but the light in her eyes is undiminished. Her mouth opens, lips curving to form the start of his name, but before any sound can be made, the hilt of the guard’s sword is brought down upon the back of her head, and she slumps to the floor.

A cry tears itself of its own volition from Solas’s throat. He is not entirely sure of exactly how it happens, but in seconds the woman is crumpled in a heap against the wall, impaled on her own sword, and he is kneeling on the stones at Lavellan’s side, pulling her into his lap. Long, slim fingers move around to the back of her head, cradling it; he feels blood in her hair, and power propels a rush of warmth to his hand as he – almost involuntarily – begins casting small healing spells.

“Inquisitor,” he murmurs. His other hand brushes a brief trail across her cheek – he hooks a finger underneath a rogue clump of hair hanging there, combs it back away from her forehead in a semblance of her usual style. Her eyes are closed, and he cups her face, ghosting the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. “ _Vhenan_. You are safe. Wake up now.”

Under his touch, she stirs, and his breath catches in his throat. She shifts where she lies, as though attempting to discern who it is that holds her by the feel of his chest, the strength of his arms; her lips part to pull in air, and after a moment, her eyes open – slowly, blearily, eyelids fluttering, a confused glaze remaining over her irises even as she tries to blink it away. He brushes his thumb again over her cheek, and she squints up at him, closing her lips, her tongue flitting out for a moment to wet them. “Solas?” she questions, and her voice is hoarse, trembling, but the sound sends a rush of relief washing over him like the tide coming in.

His breath catches as he nods. “Yes,” he replies, his voice soft, almost reverent, as he delicately neatens her short hair. “You are safe now.”

She takes a long, shuddering breath, closing her eyes for a moment; the effort it requires is obvious, but she very nearly sounds like herself when she comments, “Took you all long enough.”

Unexpectedly, he finds himself victim to a quiet chuckle. “ _Ir abelas_ ,” he apologizes. “Your advisors become… somewhat less unified in your absence.”

“Oh, shit.” Her eyes open, lifting to meet his, her brow furrowing in concern. “They haven’t started any wars, have they?”

Another quiet laugh. “Not so far as I am aware,” he replies, “though I would advise a swift return to Skyhold.”

“Shit. Okay. Help me up.” Her torso tenses as she tries to sit up, her hand pressing flat against the stone floor to brace herself; he moves his hand to her collar to prevent her from rising, and her eyes narrow. “Solas.”

“You should not exert yourself.”

“I’m quite capable of _standing_.”

“You are quite capable of most anything, _vhenan_ , but all the same,” he persists. “You should not exert yourself.”

“I’m not a child, Solas.”

“Of that, I am well aware.” He isn’t entirely sure that the argument has been won, but she raises no further verbal protests when he moves his hand from her head to encircle her back, hooking his other arm underneath her knees to scoop her up from the floor as he stands. She is even lighter than he would have imagined, all thin skin stretched over bones that feel as hollow as a bird’s. Holding her like this, her small frame tucked against his chest, weariness dragging down her eyelids – it is easy to forget that she is the leader of perhaps the most influential organization in Thedas.

He dips his head to press a kiss to the crown of her head, and the stubborn set of her lips does not linger long.

**Author's Note:**

> I managed not to name-drop and I tried to keep description to a minimum - but, for anyone who cares, my Lavellan's name is Marin; she's a mage; and she has Mythal vallaslin.


End file.
